


Done

by Nika_Bo



Series: San Siro Stadium [2]
Category: Kiwi - Harry Styles (Song), Medicine - Harry Styles (Song), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, SanSiro2014tour, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 12:52:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14977541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nika_Bo/pseuds/Nika_Bo
Summary: @ JULIAXXEMMAIF YOU COULD BE A GIRL FOR 24HOURS, WHAT WOULD YOU DO?Harry declares his intentions. Very publicly. Niall is losing his shit!





	Done

So, seems my creative brain is working its way through all the possible 1D shipping combos. This one’s a Narry, my 2nd favourite one! I had this idea as soon as I saw Niall’s almost “angry face” (as if this cutie could ever really look truly pissed off) upon hearing Styles’ reply. I know he wasn’t angry, they bumped fists shortly after and Harry said Happy pride! (bless him) and it was all good. But for this story to work I’ve decided that this second part never happened and Niall is deeply upset.

As well as "Supernova" set during the 2014 stadium tour concert @San Siro, Milan. Yeah, that DVD was very inspirational!

Niall's aka "author's" sweat-soaked post-gig T-shirt SEXYBEAST fantasy reference was totally based on THIS MOMENT (even though it happens a whole year later)! But the visual, damn!!!  
Go check out "7.28.15 Kansas City, Harry loses his mind" on YT.

On a different note: is it just me or has there been a lyric change in MEDICINE a while ago during the Americas tour of Harry?  
Pretty sure he is singing this now:  
... up to your mouth, **Peeling** it out, **Feeding** it out (!!!???)

Comments? Opinions?

Either way: enjoy this. Be kind. You’re wonderful!

***

 

 

Milano, July 28th 2014

@ JULIAXXEMMA  
IF YOU COULD BE A GIRL FOR 24  
HOURS, WHAT WOULD YOU DO?

“Harry Styles, you got an answer for us. What is it?”  
“I’d do Niall!”

***

Niall is back in his hotel room, trying to fall asleep. As if today wasn’t exhausting enough already they have another gig at San Siro Stadium tomorrow and he has to bring his A-game once more because the show is being taped again for their concert DVD. He feels bone-tired, his body sagging, sinking deeper and deeper into the wonderfully soft hotel mattress, ready to switch off. But the chaos in his head is keeping him awake, thoughts rushing through his mind, images flashing before his eyes.

He knew that those twitter questions would one day bite them all in the arse. Sure they were always checked and selected before they appeared on the stage screens to avoid any embarrassment. It was a family show after all.

_Or is it???!!!_

Harry’s mischievously grinning, wicked face appears in his mind and something tight coils hot and uncomfortable in his belly. Harry, always ready to cannonball into sexual innuendo, to shake things up, destroying the order, the rules and rigid forms of concepts, to overthrow it all. Making everything dance, rearrange and new; infectious in his open, free and embracing approach to all things.

It is something that translates across an LED screen in a full, 70,000 people stadium. Rolls around the grandstands like a tangible thing. Lifts you up and takes you on a journey where suddenly anything seems possible, is okay and accepted. Cherished even. He knows no one else who can create this kind of atmosphere. Who’s energy is so contagious.

They all do their best on stage. Sometimes more, sometimes less, depending on their individual situation, how well rested they are, what ailments and worries they carry with them but they always aim to reach 101%.

Not Harry Styles. His life mantra seems to be: Work hard, play hard, be kind. And he is always at 150%. Minimum. So of course Harry is the most active on stage. Even after the 30th gig he still jumps and dances around, never tiring of performing in front of the masses.

Niall is secretly amused at how different he is in comparison to Liam. Payno, who likes the audience’s adoration no less than Harry, They all do but these two are probably the ones who crave it most. And yet they are so different in their approach. With Liam everything is controlled, calculated, a perfect pose, from his dance moves down to his signature microphone flip. He stays within the boundaries of the pop star repertoire.

Harry on the other hand isn’t really pop anymore. His stage behaviour is downright rock. He’s a rebel, a maverick who doesn’t care about how his moves come across. He simply does them. They are organic, a result of his exuberance. Sometimes odd, quirky, even silly but always sexy and unique. They are totally Harry. And the crowd goes absolutely bonkers for them. It must drive Liam mad.

Yes, Harry is unpredictable, a risk, uncontrollable. Management will no doubt have realised once more tonight. Niall is sure that someone’s already given Harry one hell of a speech. He didn’t stick around for it though. Too tired and still too upset about the whole thing. Harry will apologise to him in the morning. He knows it. Harry always does. He is too kind not to, hates when people are on the outs with him over something he’s done wrong.

_Wrong, was it really?_ Not to Harry. Niall knows that Styles is more than comfortable with his fluid approach to both sexes, his charm universal.

“Maybe it’s my own fault?”, Niall thinks. His own reaction to it the problem. Harry’s just being honest, being himself.

They all have toyed with allusions about attraction and bromances within the band for years. It had started as a joke at first, a natural reaction of being thrown together as a band. 5 boys, just out of puberty, testing things out in the manic craziness of developing into a worldwide superstar phenomenon, getting to know each other, growing close. It hadn’t necessarily been about sexual attraction, more an affection, an honest feeling of love towards the other band members. Like siblings, like family.

Of course there’s also the odd moment of infatuation. Niall knows that – unlike him and Liam – Zayn and Louis have always been very curious and more than comfortable being physical around each other. Towards Harry. That they are probably bi. Gay even.

Weirdly enough he doesn’t think in these categories when it comes to Harry. Perhaps because Harry rejects these labels, hates them with such fervor. And maybe because Harry somehow transcends them, his love towards any kind of person, so pure, so all encompassing that labels don’t apply anymore. It is simply a deeply felt affection for all things human.

So why did he get so upset tonight when Harry stated that he’d sleep with him if he were a girl? If anything it is a compliment. A huge one for someone of Harry’s level of gorgeousness to choose someone like him. Niall is under no illusions as to how much he’s out of Harry’s league when it comes to attributes like sexy, beautiful, breathtaking.

Breathtaking. He remembers sleepless nights on the tour bus, lying in his bunk, curtains drawn, involuntarily listening to Harry wanking off and himself getting harder and harder by the minute from the sensual sounds his bandmate was emitting, trying yet failing to be quiet.

They all had to wank off at times, 5 healthy boys in their prime. And Niall has heard them all doing it. They all probably heard him do it too! Inevitable when being confined to a tour bus 8 months of a year. But only Harry managed to get him hard in response. Every time. Niall has always been glad not to be visible during those moments. It would have embarrassed him to no end to let anyone witness how much Harry got to him.

He couldn’t help wondering about the visual though, to actually see Harry pleasuring himself. _Or even be the one doing it to him?_ The idea of Harry jerking into his fist, moaning against Niall’s neck, unraveling for him was something that brought a dryness to his throat and a knot of coiling snakes to the pit of his stomach. A fantasy he kept well hidden in the deepest recess of his heart, barely allowing himself to acknowledge it.

Because it was the weirdest thing. Niall had never fancied a guy. He was strictly in hetero territory once the initial collective 1D bromance phase had waned. Zayn and Louis were still orbiting very close to Harry, but him and Liam had overcome that. Quite a while ago. But lately he finds that his gaze wanders to Harry on more than the usual occasion and that it leaves him breathless for a heartbeat, those coiled snakes slithering through his body and the most inappropiate thoughts and images flashing through his head.

Maybe it’s the hair, that tousled-despite-the-headband hair. And those cheekbones, growing more prominent in that chiseled face with the stress of the tour and Harry losing weight due to his excessive dancing around on stage. The tan he’s developed. Niall as a pasty Irish guy has always been envious of the golden hue Styles picks up as soon as the sun comes out. That tan which accentuates the green of Harry’s eyes, the crimson of his mouth, elevating him from beautiful to downright stunning.

And that ambivalent quality about him. Niall has seen Harry adopt the most ridiculous poses on stage, imitating fans, females mostly, popping his hips, skipping or twirling around. Yet instead of looking ridiculous doing it Styles always looks almost illegally sexy with it. He gets it right. Every time.

Niall shudders to think of the moment when someone will come up with the idea to put Harry in drag. Harry as a girl. Niall is scared of the idea. Harry is already too gorgeous. As a girl he would be devastation. Perhaps he already is. There are enough moments when Harry’s features veer into the androgynous, positively female: those large luminous eyes and pouty pink lips. Imagining Harry dolled up in a dress and make-up makes the bottom of his stomach drop out and has his cock harden in an alarming intensity.

He curses and turns over, pummeling his fist into the pillow for lack of someone to punch. He’d like to smack Harry right now, shout at him: “Stop it! Whatever this is stop it! Just leave me alone and stop being so fucking seductive and gorgeous and irresistible!”

Burying his head into the downy softness he screams his frustration into 200-threatcount cotton and feathers, mentally addressing some higher deity to relieve him of this cerebral hell. He’d very much like to shoot himself in the head at this point, anything to stop his brain from working. He wants to sleep, needs to sleep, but his neurons decide that it is time for another round and present him with another visual. One that will also be stored in the well hidden, suppressed, did never happen category.

In this one Styles is down on his knees in front of Niall who’s dragging the tip of his cock back and forth across Harry’s mouth, watching in fascination. That dark pink hue of those lush lips, moist with precum, contrasting with the green of Harry’s eyes, hunger and desire burning in them.

“Please,” his bandmate moans, “give me your co…”

Niall slaps him across the face, not hard, just a light reprimand to establish who is in charge here but enough to set Harry’s hair flying, whipping across his face. Oh that hair! He wants to push his fingers into those silky tresses, grab fistfuls of it and pull Harry closer, sheathing him over his erection all the way down, down, down until the boy starts gagging on his flesh.

He probably won’t though. Niall knows full well that Harry isn’t one to resist a challenge, eager, happy to please and probably deviant enough to be amazingly good at blowing and deep-throating someone.

Strange, he’s always imagined others to get down on their knees for Harry, has pictured him leaning against a wall, head thrown back, eyes closed, with someone in front on their knees, sucking him, one of their hands pushing up Harry’s post-gig sweat-stained t-shirt to have better access, exposing twitching abs and those laurels on his hips.

In his visions Harry was always the one in charge, long-fingered hand resting on the person’s head, directing their movements, sometimes overwhelmed by sensations and sliding off, back against the wall, clenching and punching the concrete while an expletive fell from his mouth.

Harry, a sight to behold in his carnal pleasure! The husky sound of his gasps and moans enough to stir oneself into a hard cane of need. When Styles finally opened his eyes, the force of his gaze coming up to where Niall was standing in his dreams, observing, the message in those vivid eyes clear, multiplying in the knowing smirk that stretched across Harry’s face, dimples popping, it had Niall gasp and wake up. Sweat soaked and rock-hard.

It’s different this time.

Sinking his shaft into Harry’s mouth while he looks up at him, green eyes wide, greedy, finally fluttering shut as he gets to work, humming around Niall’s length in appreciation, throat working, massaging his cock is the best fucking image ever.

_Yes baby, just like that. Oohh you’re so good down on your knees for me, greedily sucking my cock. You’re hungry for it, aren’t you? So hungry for it. Yeah, suck it. Make it even harder so I can fuck you all the better with it. That’s what you want, don’t you? Me fucking you with my big hard cock. Shoving it into your hole until you’re full and taking you. Deep, hard. Til you scream my name! Oh I’m gonna fuck you so good. Driving in and out of you, teasing you, just how you like it, making you beg for it. Cause you need it bad, don’t you?_

“Shit! Holy fucking Mother of Christ!” Niall curses, jumping out of his bed and almost falling over in his attempt to get away from... From what? His own mind? _And fuck, where did that internal monologue come from?_ Hands pressed to his temples, his hard-on straining against his boxers he stumbles, finds his way to the living room area in the darkness and descends upon the minibar. Alcohol! He needs copious amounts of alcohol to numb his brain and its overactive imagination. He’ll probably have a headache in the morning but anything is better than thinking about sex with Harry for another second!

He consumes two beers and every fucking miniature spirit bottle in the fridge, in quick succession. The last one a Bailey’s _Three cheers for the Irish!_ before he collapses on his bed and sleep, piggybacking on unconsciousness, finally claims him.

***

It’s still the middle of the night when he wakes up, confused about where he is, what woke him up. The room is dark and quiet and he is very, very drunk. Niall contemplates adjusting his position because he’s lying spread-eagled crossways on top of his sheets but decides he can’t be arsed about it. He closes his eyes again. _Were they even open?_ The room is so dark he can’t be sure. All he knows is that the buzz from the drinks earlier is still coursing through his system. His body feels heavy with sleep and there is a wonderful warmth spreading from his core towards every limb.

He’s relaxing into it, the heat coiling, slithering through his abdomen, all the way down to his toes and sneaking up along his spine to the base of his neck before exploding into his fuzzy brain, setting all synapses firing off at once.

Three things become very clear to him. He’s not alone in his room, he’s naked and somebody is blowing him to the brink of completion. Niall groggily tries to sit up but whoever is kneeling between his legs pushes him back down with a surprisingly strong hand flattened against his chest, while maintaining a spine tingling rhythm, mouth gliding up and down on his rigid cock. His attempt at squirming is rewarded with a deep-throating motion that has him groan in desperate delight, hands fisting into the sheets, hips rising involuntarily towards that moist heat. Closer, so close.

“FUCK!” His voice is hoarse from sleep and singing and self-preservation tells him to get up, turn on the lights, face his intruder. _Fight or flight!_ But his body – tired, lonely, still inebriated and traitorous body – tells him to keep still, let go, enjoy, because this feels good, so bloody fucking overwhelmingly good!

As if sensing his inner dilemma the person in the shadows lets his straining cock slip from their talented mouth with an obscene slurp and starts slowly kissing a path up his body from groin to chest. Soft yet firm lips, leaving tiny wet traces on Niall where a cool tongue is touching, licking across his skin.

His heartbeat is frantic by the time the shadow has reached his face and is crouching over Niall, nothing but an even blacker silhouette in the dark, moonless room. His own breathing is short, shallow, all senses on alert and he fears for his life. This person has him at their mercy, could easily harm him, and the adrenaline is a tidal wave submerging him.

He gasps, shivering with fear and excitement, the high unlike anything he’s ever felt. Afraid to move, to provoke the shadow looming over his prone body. _Isn’t there a picture from some obscure Swiss painter with an image of a demon sitting on someone’s chest? And strange what you think about while your life could be at risk._

Niall is mesmerised, motionless apart from his frantically beating heart and heaving chest, drawing in gasps of air. They might be his last. His eyes are wide open and yet he can’t see a thing, the intruder more a presence of energy and touch than something truly visible.

When that mouth finally makes contact with his skin once more, placing small sucking kissing to the side of his neck, probably creating a chain of small love bites, Niall decides that he is going to surrender. Perhaps giving in to these figment is the way to overcome them. Besides, it feels amazing. So real! Whoever is touching him can do whatever they want, as long as they don’t stop.

He feels the shadow, a weight on his body, legs straddling him, lips and tongue wet against his neck, a hand reaching back for his cock, stroking it, firm and confidently. Niall presses his heels into the mattress and arches up again into that hand that’s working him so incredibly well that an orgasm is already looming just behind the next couple of downward strokes.

He wants to voice his protest when the motion suddenly stops but all he can manage is some sort of strangled sound, a cadence of pleading and the shadow takes pity on him, shifting on his body, because the next thing he feels is the unmistakeable tightness of an orifice as the unknown hand guides Niall into it. A push and then it is utter bliss and Niall’s eyes roll back in his head as the shadow sinks down onto him and starts to rock back and forth on his cock, slowly finding a rhythm of riding him with circling hips.

Niall wants to swear, to shout. Something, anything. A curse, a blessing, a name. He can’t. Air and words are stuck in his throat, sensation taking over as he becomes a slave to that exquisite push and pull of flesh against flesh.

He’s so lost in it, so focused on not falling apart immediately that he almost misses the stranger’s mouth on his skin again, biting into the soft part of flesh between neck and shoulder, tugging slightly, while grinding down hard on Niall’s cock.

And Niall ignites, groans in ecstasy, clenches his hand around the shadow’s neck, soft hair tingling his fingers, and fuses his mouth to those lips, tasting, opening, devouring and drinking in each molecule of sweet, dark, unfamiliar flavour.

He grows frantic with desire, his fingers digging into the shoulders of the stranger, painfully, pulling them downwards, onto him, while kissing, licking into that delicious mouth and fucking, bucking upwards into that tightness in desperate need to be closest, there, inside, until everything culminates and explodes into infinite, the orgasm ripping through him, setting him free.

***

When he wakes up the room is flooded with sunlight. It’s still early, the city outside his open balcony door slowly awakening. The breeze is already warm and tinged with smells of flowers, paninis, pine trees. Italia! He’s lying on his back staring at the ceiling, gauging the level of his hangover. Not that bad. When he turns his head to the side he’s greeted by the sight of a dark curly head.

Harry is next to him, on his belly, face turned towards Niall, one cheek smushed into a pillow, his tanned body intense against the white sheets, the long golden line of his back and legs interrupted by a pair of purple boxers. Niall looks at him without moving, barely breathing, just staring at that face, that pouty mouth, lashes fanned out across cheeks, slightly lighter than the hair tumbling around temple and ear.

_So beautiful._

Is he still asleep and dreaming? Is Harry really here or yet another figment of his imagination? Niall can’t help lifting his hand and brushing his knuckles lightly against Harry’s face. So soft, so dear. Styles opens his eyes, slowly, sleepily, his gaze an arresting mix of green and greys, immediately settling on Niall’s face before he slowly raises himself up on his elbows.

“I came over to apologise but you didn’t make much sense last night, drunk as you were, trying to hit me, so I decided to stay because I wanted to be the first one to speak to you when you woke up, say that I am sorry for what I said yesterday. I am sorry Niall, truly, so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. And definitely not in front of a massive crowd and recording cameras like that. No matter how I might feel about….. things… us… It was not okay and I am sorry. Damn my stupid mouth and impulses. Please don’t be mad at me anymore. I hate it when you are mad at me. It feels as if the whole world is suddenly off kilter. Please say you forgive me? Please Niall?”

Harry’s baritone voice, hoarse and deep from sleep and strain almost breaks at the final cadence and it’s like a knife twisting through Niall’s soul. He doesn’t say anything, just reaches for Harry and pulling him close, wraps his arms and legs around that lean body in the tightest embrace ever. Whole body pressed flush against his colleague, skin to skin, and holds him, cradles him, like the most precious thing which he is. He half expects Harry to continue talking, pleading, asking for forgiveness, but for once he’s quiet and Niall feels the initial tension in Harry’s body slowly subside the longer he’s holding him like that, silently, until their breaths are synched up and Harry’s heart is a slow, steady beat against his own chest.

“Of course I forgive you!” He finally murmurs the words into Styles hair, face buried into those soft curls. “I’d forgive you anything!”

His mouth is against that impossibly smooth spot right below Harry’s ear and he feels the pulse beneath his lips, and that unique smell of sleep and Harry and that fancy shower gel he always uses. Niall loves that smell. Next to fields, cows and fresh cut grass in Mullingar it is the best smell in the world. It’s home. The other home. So he inhales deeply, blissfully and then whispers the truth like a confession into Harry’s skin.

“I’d do you too!”


End file.
